This question almost never comes right away. Usually I’ll tell someone what I do and they’ll nod politely, like they’re trying to be respectful while quietly deciding where to file that information. You can almost see the mental drawer opening and closing. Then, a few minutes later, they circle back. “ So… are you a minister? ” That’s when I know we’re really talking. The honest answer is yes. I am an ordained United Methodist pastor. That’s part of my life and part of my story. But here’s where it gets a little confusing. When I’m serving as a celebrant, I’m not standing there as a representative of a church or a denomination. And that distinction matters more than people realize. Most of us grew up with a very specific picture of how weddings and funerals are supposed to work. There’s a church, or at least a chapel. There’s a familiar order of service. There’s someone up front who represents a tradition and leads everyone through something we’ve seen before. So when people hear the word celebrant, what they’re really asking is, “ Where do you fit in all of that? ” I usually answer by telling a story. A couple once sat across from me at a coffee shop and said, “ We don’t really know what we’re supposed to be doing. ” They looked nervous saying it, like they were already behind somehow. I told them, “ You’re doing it right now. ” They laughed. They took a breath and relaxed. And that told me everything I needed to know. They weren’t asking for a perfect ceremony. They weren’t asking for the right music or the right words in the right order. What they wanted was a ceremony that felt like them. Something honest. Something that didn’t feel borrowed from someone else’s life. That’s usually the moment I explain what a celebrant actually does. A celebrant builds the ceremony around the people, instead of asking the people to squeeze themselves into a ceremony that was written for someone else. Once people hear that, things start to make sense. The same thing happens with families planning a funeral or a memorial service. They often start by saying, “ We’re not really sure what we’re supposed to do .” And again, I tell them the same thing. You’re already doing it. They’re telling stories. They’re remembering little things. They’re trying to figure out how to say goodbye in a way that feels real and meaningful and authentic. What they don’t need is someone who already knows the script. They need someone who’s willing to learn the person. Who were they really? What made them laugh? What will people miss when they leave today? That’s the work. Now somewhere around here, another question usually shows up. Sometimes it’s spoken. Sometimes it just hangs in the air. “So… what aren’t you?” A celebrant isn’t there to judge whether someone qualifies for a meaningful ceremony. Life has already done enough of that. A celebrant isn’t there to read a script that could belong to anyone. If the ceremony could be swapped out with someone else’s and no one would notice, it probably doesn’t fit. And a celebrant isn’t the center of attention. If things are going well, people barely remember what I was wearing or where I was standing. They remember how the moment felt. Also, just to make things slightly more confusing, the IRS doesn’t actually have a category for “celebrant” on tax forms. Even the government isn’t entirely sure what to do with us. Which feels strangely appropriate. When I’m working as a celebrant, my role isn’t tied to one religious tradition. It’s tied to the people in front of me. Sometimes that includes faith language. Sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes it includes pieces from different traditions. Sometimes it’s beautifully simple and completely non-religious. The ceremony fits the people. Always. At the end of the day, the simplest way I know how to explain what a celebrant is goes like this. I help people mark moments that matter. Not in a rushed way.Not in a borrowed way. Not in a way that asks them to be anything other than who they are. Just honestly. Just authentically. Just meaningfully. And if you’re planning a wedding, a memorial, or a celebration of life and you’re wondering what that could look like for you, I’m always glad to sit down, listen, and hear your story. That’s usually where it all starts anyway.

Sometimes, the altar isn’t built of stone. No stained glass. No priest in a robe. Just a hospital room, a folding chair, and the uncomfortable realization that this might be the last real conversation you ever have with someone you love. Not exactly the setting we picture when we think of holiness. And yet—there it is. In one unforgettable episode of THE PITT , the adult children sit at the bedside of their dying father. Someone suggests they tell their dad four simple things. Not a speech. Not a grand gesture. Just four, quiet sentences: I love you. Thank you. I forgive you. Please forgive me. That moment felt like holy ground. No lightning bolt. No choir of angels. But something sacred settled into the air, like grace in street clothes. These four phrases come from the work of Dr. Ira Byock, a renowned palliative care physician who’s spent his life helping people die well—and helping the rest of us not completely blow the chance to say what matters most. In his book The Four Things That Matter Most, Dr. Byock distills a career’s worth of bedside wisdom into a simple but profound truth: when people are dying, what they most need—and what we most need to say—can be boiled down to these four sentences. They don’t fix everything. They don’t erase the past. But they open a door. And often, that’s enough. Dr. Byock’s framework echoes the deeper rhythms of Hoʻoponopono, a traditional Hawaiian practice of reconciliation and restoration. In its original form, families would come together to “make things right” through confession, forgiveness, and mutual accountability—sometimes with the help of a spiritual elder or healer. It was part therapy, part liturgy, part family intervention. The goal wasn’t to win. It was to heal. And isn’t that what we all want in the end? Here’s the part that keeps gnawing at me: Why do we wait until someone’s dying to say the truest things? Why do we save our best words—the vulnerable ones, the ones that crack us open—for the deathbed instead of the dinner table? Why do we think we have time? Maybe those four phrases aren’t just for the dying. Maybe they’re for the living, too. Maybe they’re not only the last things we say — but the things that hold us together all along. Think of them as a kind of relational liturgy. A four-part prayer for love in the real world. I love you - - Not the greeting-card version, but the kind that holds steady through disappointment and dishes left in the sink. Thank you - - A daily practice of naming what we usually overlook. I forgive you - - Not because it’s easy, but because bitterness is heavier than it looks. Please forgive me - - T he most human of all prayers. These aren’t just nice sentiments. They are sacred tools. And most of the time, we forget we’re holding them. So, over the next four posts, we’ll open each phrase like an offering—not just for the dying, but for the living who are stumbling through love and loss in real time. You won’t find case studies or dramatic TV scenes here. Only real stories—the kind that linger, surprise, or quietly change everything. You don’t need a diagnosis to speak these words. You don’t need a priest, a perfect script, or a mountaintop. You just need a relationship worth fighting for. A moment of honesty. And maybe a little courage. Because the sacred doesn’t always arrive in robes and incense. Sometimes it sounds like “I’m sorry,” whispered over coffee. Sometimes it’s a shaky “Thank you” muttered in the car. Sometimes it’s a plain sentence, said just in time. It doesn’t look like much. A sigh. A sentence. A pause. But that’s the thing about Unlikely Altars — sometimes they show up dressed like ordinary life.